


Remember Me As I Was (Not As I Am)

by Flames_and_Jade, Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - No Band, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cancer, Doctor!patrick, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Conditions, cuteness, humor (hopefully!)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 11:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8889355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flames_and_Jade/pseuds/Flames_and_Jade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace/pseuds/Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace
Summary: He felt like there was a bomb ticking inside him, a timer that he knew was steadily counting down, down, down to the morning. When it reached zero, he would be on the table, the harsh lights of the operating room glaring down at him and illuminating for the world the last time he would be whole. It felt like everything would end when he went under, like that last breath before the anesthesia took him would freeze in his lungs, until he woke back up and it would be done. A harsh division between this world and his new one. The future felt like it was going to swallow him whole. OR...Patrick is a Pediatrician at Chicago's Mercy Medical Center, and his boyfriend Pete is an author, who receives some shocking news.





	1. Who will I be when I wake up?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collab between the lovely @Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace and I (Flames_and_Jade) that came out of her fantastic story "How To Save A Life" and the massive depressive episode that I experienced after reading it! =) We're planning this to have quite a few parts, so we hope you'll hang on for the ride! It's going to be full of angst, fluff, some smut (eventually!), some humor, and a whole lot of cuteness!!

  _Pete? Baby, can you hear me?_

The sound reminded him of the bank his mom would take him to when he was little. It was a grand old building that was on Chicago’s historical registry, with tall pillars reaching up to the soaring ceiling. He remembered being awed by the way his footsteps echoed around the huge space, bouncing off the walls and refracting from the heavy glass windows. 

_Sweetheart, can you open your eyes, please? You can do it love, look at me please._

 It felt like he was swimming through jello…almost like in dreams when you’re running and just can’t quite seem to move fast enough. He remembered slowly that he _could_ lift his eyelids…that there was this thing called _opening_ them. Wasn’t that how you could see?

“Hey, hey baby, it’s me.” 

The blur in front of him resolved into the face of his best friend and the love of his life. He was smiling widely, and it made Pete’s heart clench a little bit.  

“P-Patrick?” It seemed to be way too much work to get the single word to roll out of his mouth. 

“Yes babe, I’m here. How are you feeling?” A soft hand smoothed along his cheek and Pete tried to nuzzle into it, but it was so hard to move, so hard to get his body to do what he wanted. He felt light, like he was laying on a hammock…or maybe he was laying on a surf board out past the waves, letting the gentle motion of the sea rock him. But then how was Patrick next to him? How did he fall asleep on a surfboard? Who knew…it was too complicated to work out.

“Mmm Oookay. C-can I-, I’m…s-sleepy.” 

There was nothing but reassurance on Patrick’s face as he nodded, smile still on his lips as he ran his hand through Pete’s hair soothingly. “Of course, love, you can go back to sleep.” 

He started to pull away, and Pete tried to reach for him as his heart was seized by the overwhelming fear of being _alone_. Alone on the ocean, floating forever. “No! Ssschtayy…”

Then Patrick’s fingers slid through his own, his hand warm and perfect, as Pete realized he hadn’t moved his hand at all. “I’m not going anywhere, Pete. I’ll stay forever.” 

He wasn’t sure if it worked, but Pete tried to smile before he dipped back under the waves, and sleep took him. 

 

~//~

 

_Patrick’s was squeezing too hard…their fingers were laced together, but he was gripping like they were dangling off a cliff. The doctor was talking, saying words Pete didn’t understand like ‘High Grade Surface Osteosarcoma’ and ‘Grade III’ and 'rare but not unheard of’ and ‘possibility of metastasizing to the lungs.’ One word pulled him from the haze that was rippling through his mind, blowing off the fear that felt like it was pulling at his heart._

_“AMPUTATE?!”_

_He shot out of the chair, Patrick’s fingers ripped from between his own as he stared at the elderly doctor who was looking at him way too fucking calmly from behind wire reading glasses._

_“I’m terribly sorry, Pete, but I’m afraid its the only option we have. We—“_

_“YOU ARE NOT CUTTING OFF MY FUCKING LEG!”_

_Patrick was standing next to him now, turning his body that decided it was a good plan to turn to stone, and cupping his face in his hands. He looked into the blue eyes he knew so well, the pale porcelain skin and saw fear right next to the love in his gaze._

_“Pete, baby, I know it’s scary but you have to listen, it’s—“_

_But he was already gone, bolting out the door as fast as his legs—BOTH HIS LEGS GODDAMIT—could carry him._

 

_~//~_

 

_The light from the streetlights was blue, somehow. Maybe it was the way it filtered through their curtains…but it fell in blue stripes across the bed that made it look like prison bars._

_Patrick was sitting against the headboard holding him and making soft, comforting noises even though they didn’t do anything to calm him down. He was curled up against him in a little ball, gripping his shirt in shaking hands as he sobbed—deep, ugly, gasping. He could feel something wet on his head, and he looked up blearily to see tears tracing crystalline paths down Patrick’s cheeks. It felt like a knife twisted under his heart, yet Patrick gave him a small, watery smile…and that sent him back over the edge, curling up into him like a kid in the schoolyard who had been punched in the stomach._

_He felt like there was a bomb ticking inside him, a timer that he knew was steadily counting down, down, down to the morning. When it reached zero, he would be on the table, the harsh lights of the operating room glaring down at him and illuminating for the world the last time he would be whole. It felt like everything would end when he went under, like that last breath before the anesthesia took him would freeze in his lungs, until he woke back up and it would be done. A harsh division between this world and his new one._

_The future felt like it was going to swallow him whole._

 

_~//~_

 

 

_He tried to take deep breaths, like Patrick had said as they rolled down the long hallway to the operating room. He reminded himself Patrick had promised to be in the observation room watching the whole time…something about that was oddly comforting, it was like he would have a guardian angel, almost. If angels were short, hot white guys in scrubs and blocky glasses._

_The doors opened and they were there. He tried to focus on anything else as he climbed from the rolling hospital bed to the operating table…but the thought struck him that this would be the last time he would be able to do that. To just push up on both his legs and just MOVE. He started shaking as he laid down, nurses moving in like vultures to attach things to him, sensors and start his IV. There was a beeping coming from the monitor…and a face swathed in a sterile mask with almond-shaped eyes appeared and told him to calm down, that his heart rate was too fast. He tried, desperately trying to tamp down the panic, the gut-wrenching terror that was crashing over him like a tidal wave—this was it, this was it, his leg would be gone when he woke up, this was it—his blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out whatever else she was trying to tell him…_

_The almond-eyed nurse looked up, and gentle hands reached down to cup his face. He jolted, thinking this was it, they were going to put the mask over his face and it would be into the dark, into the future that scared him so badly. He just needed another minute, please, just another minute! He tilted his head back, fighting the hands on his face, to look up at the observation room, looking for Patrick—_

_“PETE.”_

_His name cut through the pounding in his ears, the drumbeat of his heart against his chest. Like a line had been cut, he slumped to the table and looked up, finally letting the hands have their way. Patrick was looking down at him, and he couldn’t help but notice the way his hair stuck out from under the surgical cap, that his mask was hanging off one ear and his sterile gown wasn’t tied and was slipping off his shoulders. Like he had put it on in a hurry._

_“Babe, breathe with me, come on, deep breaths.” Patrick’s hand was on his chest, pressing down and releasing in a steady rhythm. Pete pulled from one of the nurse’s grip, ripping the oxygenator off his finger as his hands flew up to clutch the hand on his face, dutifully trying to copy the pressure-release-pressure-release Patrick was setting for him. “There you go.” Patrick’s voice was soothing, and he looked up at someone before his eyes came back to Pete. “Good, Pete, good, you’re doing so well…”_

_The familiar timbre of his voice, the soothing touch of his hand…it was just enough to remind Pete of all the reasons he was doing this. It made resolve trickle into the fissures of fear in his heart to NOT LEAVE. He had to do this to STAY, to stay with his Patrick…and he’d do anything for that._

_Taking a shaky breath, Pete looked into his eyes—wide and blue in his pale face that seemed to glow under the bright lights. Patrick glanced up and reached for something…_

_The anesthesia mask._

_He pulled it towards them, the hose making a strange zipper sound as it moved. Before he lost his nerve, Pete nodded silent assent and Patrick settled it over his mouth. A man’s reedy voice—the anesthesiologist—told him to take two deep breaths. Pete obeyed, breathing deep and then pushed the mask off._

_“—‘Trick.” His voice was low, pleading as he reached out and pulled Patrick down. His eyes fluttered shut as soft lips pressed to his in a chaste kiss that seemed to fill him from the inside, seeping into all the places that were soaked with fear and buoying him up._

_Patrick pulled away as Pete felt sleep start to tug at him, placing the mask over his face again. He fought to keep his eyes open, staring at Patrick’s luminous eyes, trying to stamp them forever in his mind. But a heartbeat later, he felt his eyes fall closed as he was pulled under the surface, and he seemed to hear, from very far away, his Very Favorite Voice._

_“I love you forever.”_

 

~//~

 

_Pain._

_White hot pain._

With a suddenness that shocked him to awareness, Pete felt the most consuming agony of his life shoot through him like lightning. He jolted awake to a strange sound, raw and gravelly, and wondered when it would stop because _fuck_ if it had to hurt he’d like it to hurt in silence, pretty please. 

Then he realized the noise was him, crying out in pain. 

“Pete! Pete baby you’re alright, you’re okay, calm down!” Patrick sounded frenzied and his voice cracked. But Pete wasn’t alright. He ripped free from Patrick’s hold, pulling the sheets back like a matador sweeping his cape away from the charging bull. 

His leg…it was gone. 

Then another wave of pain hit him and he scrabbled for Patrick, grabbing his hands, his arms, his shirt, whatever he could get to _hold on_ through the agony. He heard something that sounded like his voice, only it was pitched higher, filled with fear and confusion and pain. 

“Patrick, it _hurts!_ Why does it _hurt so bad???? Make it stop!!”_

 


	2. Born Under a Bad Sign

The possibility had never crossed his mind, that’s for damn sure.

He had noticed the lump on the back of his knee when he was playing soccer with some of his buddies from college. It had been a couple years, but for some reason, somebody started a big group text message with all the teammates and before you knew it, they were out in a field kicking around the ball like they were 20 again. It had been more fun than Pete remembered, trading stories, memories, old inside jokes that still carried weight, and just _being around the guys—_ he had come to look forward to the weekly games more and more as the summer wore on. They definitely weren’t as young as they used to be, they begrudgingly agreed with some hardy laughs –some of the guys had to drop out because they pulled something, sprained something, or broke something (one guy broke his toe, which neither of the others let go) but Pete just kept playing through the aches and pains, thinking they were nothing more than soreness for not having played in a while.

His right knee had been bothering him on and off, but it was manageable with a few advil or a hot shower…but by the time the end of August was getting close and the wind blowing off the lake started getting colder, he was secretly glad the games were drawing to an end. His knee hurt all the time now, but it was a deep, set-in pain, as if it had been straight in the bone, not enough to impede his walking, but enough to keep him standing at times and needing to sit down more often.

And it fucking sucked.

He mentioned in passing to Patrick one night while watching _America’s Worst Cook_ , which only earned him a raised eyebrow from behind blocky glasses and a bag of frozen peas on the lump behind his knee each night for a week, as well as nothing but gentle sex, which he was _not_ a fan of. Nothing wrong with some lovin’ but he didn’t want vanilla _all the time._

Unfortunately, it didn’t get any better.

It came to the point where Patrick, despite Pete’s whining and insistence that he was _fine_ , practically forced him to go see a doctor, which meant _Patrick_ had called and set up the appointment, faxed over his medical records from when he twisted his right ankle as a teenager, put not just one, but _several,_ reminders and alarms in his phone, and practically kicked him out of the house so he wouldn’t be late. Patrick was a pushy fuck and Pete usually loved it, but not when it was Dr. Patrick Stumph being pushy…that was just annoying and only a little adorable…okay maybe a lot adorable, but Pete knew it was meant with love…but still pushy nonetheless.

So he went and the doctor had told him it was probably just a sprain or something, but ordered an x-ray just to be sure. He hadn’t really said anything about the result and simply told Pete he was referring him to a specialist. The dude even made him an appointment, and it happened the doctor was in the medical center that was connected to the hospital where Patrick worked. Pete hadn’t thought much of it, telling him when he got home he had an x-ray taken and he was going to see a different doctor.

“Who are you seeing?” Patrick asked curiously, not looking up from his level on Candy Crush.

Pete only shrugged. “I don’t remember. It’s just a sprain anyways, I don’t know why I gotta go see some other doctor.”

Pete noticed the way Patrick’s attention broke from the app, looking pensive, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth in the way Pete absolutely _loved._ But as soon as it appeared, it vanished in a blink of an eye, his boyfriend’s attention going back to the screen of his phone, seeming to shrug it off as well. At least he thought, until later that night. Pete had woken up to the lack of Patrick in their bed at 3am, and after a quick search, finding the doctor in his little home office, hunched and concentrated over several fairly thick volumes that he knew were a few of Patrick’s medical books. Pete had to pry his amazingly gorgeous doctor-boyfriend from his book, muttering under his breath,  _“it’s stupid swelling from a stupid sprain, for crying out loud…”_ and brought him to bed, wrapping around him like an octopus. When Pete woke later that morning, Patrick was in his office, head pillowed fast asleep on the books laid out on the desk at various pages.

It went on for about three days until Pete went to this so-called specialist.

There was only one little thing: Patrick, being the really, really nice guy he was, had friends _everywhere_ , which was shitty as hell, if Pete were to be honest. Which meant when the specialist ordered a billion tests that Pete dutifully endured, one of the lab techs ratted him out to his boyfriend. Which also meant Patrick was sitting in the specialist’s office with Pete for the results of said tests, his foot bouncing a million miles an hour.  As for the reason of Patrick being nervous, well apparently the tests that were done weren’t exactly for an orthopedist or some sort of muscle doctor like Pete had thought. The specialist was an _oncologist._ Which apparently was a fancy word for _cancer specialist._

Pete wasn’t worried, he was sure it was just a mix-up, or that someone had been overly cautious. _It’s just a fucking sore knee. No big deal_ , he had thought. Patrick, on the other hand, wasn’t similarly convinced, and had a vice grip on his hand, thumb rubbing back and forth against his knuckles, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and blue-green, ocean-like eyes avoiding his own since he arrived in the office, fresh from the pediatric floor in his white coat and dark navy scrubs.

“Mr. Wentz, as it turns out, the lump behind your knee is not swelling, as we originally thought. The additional test results came back, and it appears to be a mass of malignant tissue,” the specialist, Dr. Wild, explained at first, his voice gentle but serious. “Results show that it’s Osteosarcoma, Grade III.” He quietly pushed the manila chart over to Patrick, who made a haste grab at the folder, flipping hurriedly through the pages, as Pete tried to decipher the last few sentences that Dr. Wild had uttered. Not that he wasn’t paying attention as his mind was still trying to process.

… _Doesn’t malignant mean…cancerous?_

“Wait…” Pete gasped, still shocked, “So I have…”

“Bone Cancer,” Patrick finished for him, his voice just above a whisper, looking at what appeared to be an x-ray of Pete’s leg, a dense white mass highlighted in the black and grey picture.

Pete sat stock-still as Dr. Wild when over the results and possible treatments. The cancer was apparently a rare form that spread quickly, and it hadn’t helped that he had ignored it for pretty much the whole summer, not that it mattered now, not when he was sitting in the room, results in front of him and Patrick’s hand holding on to his, their fingers laced, his grip borderline painful, but Pete didn’t say a word, if anything his boyfriend holding on to him was acting like an anchor. It didn’t feel _real_ , but it was.

Pete Wentz had cancer.

It had been a whirlwind after that day.

There had been a flurry of tests and tests and more tests, which was _great_ since many of them involved needles, which Pete _hated_ despite his love for tattoos. All through it, Patrick had been right there, talking to him, holding onto his hand clasped in the both of his as they drew blood or did the lumbar puncture and later, a lung biopsy, Pete’s eyes scrunched shut in pain

Part of the prescribed treatment for the tumor had been rigorous chemotherapy. He had endured six weeks of chemo, the after-effects of each session for the first four weeks leaving him feeling absolutely miserable and leaving him completely drained and weak, both physically, emotionally, and mentally. Wanting nothing more than to wake from this nightmare, to rip out the chemo Port that had been surgically embedded under his skin on the right side of his chest all while he was under local anesthesia and Patrick holding his hand, talking to him. Hell, it was better than that stupid PICC line they had him using for the first two weeks –Pete couldn’t bear the thought of those tubes hanging off his arm, at least the fucking Port he can cover up with a shirt.

Either way, he fucking hated _all of it_.

Over the last six weeks he learned plenty of fascinating things, like that it’s possible to vomit through your nose _and_ mouth at the same time, and that it was definitely better to eat and puke up food, rather than not eat and hack up just stomach acid. He discovered that sessions after chemo left him an emotional wreck, either snapping at everyone, even Patrick or his mom, or shut off and zoned-out with tears running gentle rivers down his cheeks from sheer exhaustion _._ His skin feels drier than it usually is in the dead of Chicago’s notorious winters, and his hair starts falling out slowly, but not as much as others, not that he really cared.

But Patrick’s by his side through it all, his room becoming a second space for the doctor, visiting him during his breaks, before shifts, after shifts, and anytime he could sneak in-between. It’s not to say their relationship hasn’t been anything but perfect; cancer isn’t pretty and what it does to a relationship isn’t any better. They’ve had their fair share of heated arguments, to say the least, which had led to Patrick storming out of the room, face red and at times, eyes filled with tears. But he keeps coming back, no matter how much Pete would push him away during his dark moods.

If anything positive really came out of this whole cancer thing, it was the testament of how deeply their love for each other truly ran, because despite the chemo, the nausea, the fights, the tears, Patrick was _still there,_ and that just made Pete, even during the darkest lows of treatment, _fight harder_.

Two and a half weeks ago, despite several treatments of chemotherapy, he had the surgery to amputate his leg right about three inches above his knee. The tumor hadn’t been shrinking, much less disappearing, however it had slowed down the growth and spread of the cancer cells. Dr. Wild, his oncologist, explained that with a rare tumor that was as large as his, the survivability was only about 30 percent if he elected to simply have the tumor cut out. But his odds went up to 70 percent if he amputated his leg completely, just to make sure that the infected issue couldn’t spread.

Pete, as soon as the initial impact of the news had worn off, he hadn’t even questioned it, instead he looked over at the doctor, determination in his eyes and a strength in his words. “How soon can I get the operation?”

Patrick had looked at him with complete and utter shock, his head turning so lightning fast he was positive he would get whiplash, blue eyes filled with fear and worry but not a shred of expectation, and that had meant the world to Pete. Patrick looked like he wanted to step in, and say something, he knew Patrick could positively _bury_ him in medical rationale for why he needed to do it, and he knew all those facts and differential diagnoses were _galloping_ through that brilliant mind. But he didn’t, he didn’t push, he had _let Pete decide._

But then again, it hadn’t been a choice, really.

Pete wasn’t afraid of death. If you asked anyone who really knew him, he probably lived walking the tightrope line between life and death than any of them with his crazy antics, reckless driving, and his teenage and early college years doing things that weren’t exactly healthy for him. But the idea of _actually_ dying…a long, slow, painful death that sapped his strength and would make him waste away in a bed in a drugged high? That wasn’t the type of death he wanted.

But more than that, he couldn’t leave Patrick.

His Patrick…his gentle, kind, loving, feisty Patrick who loved watching Food Network and sleeping late and pancakes with peanut butter _and_ syrup.

He couldn’t leave him, not if there was anything he could do about it.

Chopping off his leg was chump change for the gift of staying with Patrick.

That was a price he was willing to pay in a heartbeat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> @Flames_and_Jade and I (Shattered_Mirrors_and_Lace) hope you enjoyed the update! We apologize for the delay between chapters- the both of us are employed and it tough for us to get some writing in at times. Anyways, thanks so much for your support, and we promise a whole lot of fluff in the future to make up for this little angst-fest!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> -Shattered xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! LOOK!! WE UPDATED!!!!!!
> 
> *hides from hail of rotten fruit*
> 
> We're really sorry, okay? I blame...well, definitely blame me. Shattered has tried to get this back up and running but I work way too much and...yeah. BUT, due to her persistence and brilliance, we have another chapter up and ready for you! And like another two in the works! Cause we're adults!!! :P But no seriously, we're so sorry for the long delay and we'll try really hard to be a bit more consistent...but no promises <3 This chapter was almost totally written by my lovely co-conspirator, so all hail her lovely ideas and enjoy!!!

If Pete really looked at it, the whole situation ended up being kinda convenient, honestly. He had the surgery, and Patrick took off the first few days to stay with him through the pain and the fright, and the beginnings of physical therapy.  After about a week , though, Patrick returned back to work. What was the convenience you ask? Well it just so happened that the Pediatric department was just a few floors up, and with Patrick being one of  _ the department heads... _ he could get away with a lot. It also meant that Patrick was never far, just busy, but more importantly, just a quick elevator-ride away.

 

 

Which was perfect because Pete needed to get out of that  _ fucking _ hospital room.

 

 

While the convenience itself was Godsent, Pete was slowly losing his sanity within the barren beige walls of his room and the constantly beeping of monitors. He needed to get out, need to free himself from his cage, from the constant reminder of his lack of a  _ leg _ and the phantom pains that constantly woke him up in the dead of the night, just like it had done hours ago. 

 

He had figured out when shift change was, knowing  it was the best time to sneak out without being seen and ruthlessly questioned by the nurses on his floor.  He’d also been practicing moving his sorry ass from his godforsaken bed into his wheelchair (he almost always remembers to put the brakes on the wheels now to avoid the embarrassment of falling…again). 

 

 

When 4am comes around it’s practically like clockwork— shift change. Without a moment’s hesitation, Pete’s already maneuvering himself, using his arms, while grasping onto the  railings on his bed and using his  _ only _ leg to steady himself for the transfer to the chair. Getting comfortable in the seat, his eyes dart to the corner of the room where a pair of crutches rest innocently against the wall. He knows he’s going to start more intensive Physical Therapy soon to help his body recalibrate his equilibrium due to the loss of his leg, he was just beginning to try to get out of his bed and transfer to his chair, but even with Patrick at his side during his leave from work, that had been a nightmare, but he finally got a handle on it. But with more intensive therapy to help him with his balance, he also knew that shit was going to hurt and wear him out like hell, but it’s only a matter of time…He was supposed to start the intensive PT sessions  last week but his body is still a little weak from this yesterday’s round of chemo, and the doctor wasn’t sure if Pete would have the strength for it…

 

 

That was another battle for another day, but right now, he wanted to see Patrick goddamnnit.

 

 

His last blood panel had shown that his white cells count was up, which was a sign that his immune system was holding up today, which also meant that Pete didn’t need to be in quarantine, but as a precaution, and to avoid Patrick yelling at him, he wore a sterile surgical mask. It was a good day— chemo wasn’t as soul sucking as it usually was, he was able to keep small portions of his food down (he’s still not able to eat everything on his plate; he tries to put a dent in his meals, but his stomach just can’t handle it yet), plus he  _ feels  _ good, he feels strong enough today to play escapee.

 

 

He rolled his way to the door, glancing down the hallway for any sign of a nurse that might come and try to wrangle him back into bed, with the ever present threat of ‘ _ If you don’t cooperate, I’ll have to page Dr. Stumph _ ’ and that was the last thing Pete wanted, because that usually ended with an angry, annoyed Patrick, which, while that in and of itself was  _ hot _ , he really didn’t want to be yelled at. Honestly, it wasn’t as much fun as it was if it were angry Patrick  _ in bed _ . 

 

 

Grinning with childish mischief when he couldn’t spot a nurse in sight, Pete quickly maneuvered down the hall as fast as his arms and wheels would take him. He drives himself as best as he could with three weeks’ worth of practice and finds himself at the elevator.

 

 

"7 th Floor. Pediatrics," he says to himself as he gets in,pushing the ‘7’ button almost twenty times like an impatient child (which he really is) before the door actually started closing. Patrick's on one his long shifts and he’s determined to go and bother his boyfriend during his paperwork.

 

 

Besides, he’s getting stir-crazy being held up in room, in a  _ bed, all day _ . He needs a little change in scenery before he starts coloring the walls like a perpetual three year old.

 

 

The elevator takes him to the 7ths floor and when the doors slide open, Pete’s greeted by a familiar mural of a calming blue underwater scene, filled to the brim with smiling turtles and grinning fishes. It somehow fills  him with a sense of ease before he makes a right turn down one hallway and then a left, rolling himself down a path he’s known since Patrick became Head of Pediatrics a few years back.

 

He rolled up to the door covered in children’s artwork, all addressed “To Doctor Patrick.” His name plaque was partially covered by a particularly colorful drawing of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles by a kid named Peter (a good name, he thought wryly!), but he knew he was in the right place. 

 

 

Pushing down the handle, he nearly succeeded in pushing the door open and himself right in...nearly, Patrick looked up from behind a stack of charts that nearly obscured him from view, and his eyes widened as he saw his boyfriend breaking and entering  into the small office. 

 

 

“Pete! What are you doing here?” He stood quickly, knocking over a stack of charts that he had piled on the floor next to his desk and crossed to Pete, pulling one of the room’s other chairs out of the way so he could maneuver  all the way in. 

 

 

Pulling off his mask as Patrick shut the door behind him, Pete couldn’t help the smile that stretched across his face. “I was bored, so I decided to come keep you company.” Patrick gave him a look that could only be pulled off by a doctor that took care of children every day—equal parts exasperation, patience, compassion and amusement. 

 

 

“You should keep your mask on, Pete, you know your immune system—“ 

 

 

“I know, I know, but my counts were high today, and I feel good, babe!” he flashes Patrick another megawatt smile, “I’m pretty sure we share all the same germs by now, and I  _ like _  your germs.” 

 

 

Patrick rolled his eyes, but moved back to his desk and started picking up the charts that had spilled all over the floor. “Fine. As long as the door stays shut.” He sat back down and pushed his glasses back up his nose, just in time to see Pete throw his fist in the air before he rolled back to the door and pushes it shut. “Why aren’t you asleep? It’s—“ he squinted at the watch on his wrist—“four in the morning?” 

 

 

Pete simply shrugged and he came back to the desk. “Couldn’t. Besides, I’m still sleeping like 300 times more than I ever have in my life.” 

 

 

The look was back on Patrick’s face as he took the next chart from the stack. “Well, you kinda have cancer, dummy. I think it’s okay to sleep.” 

 

 

Making a noncommittal noise, Pete started playing with the sand in Patrick’s miniature zen garden. He raked back and forth, making new designs and then obliterating them with the back of the rake. It was nice. They passed the time like that, Patrick scribbling in each of the charts, the ‘done’ stack starting to climb higher than the incomplete ones. Pete replaced the zen garden back on the bookshelf, and took down one of the medical books from the shelf. Flipping through it, he stopped at a random page. “Dayyyroocyst? The dilated upper end of the nasolacrimal duct, the passageway that allows tears to drain into the nasal cavity.” He looked up at Patrick with a skeptical look on his face. “Why can’t you just say the tear duct?”

 

 

“It’s pronounced  _ Dacyocyst _ , and it’s because everything has to have a name so everyone knows what exactly you’re talking about.” Patrick didn’t even look up from his chart mountain, and Pete shrugged, proceeding to read about  _ depigmentation _ ,  _ Dermatofibrosarcoma protuberan _ s, and something called  _ dextrocardia _ . 

 

 

“ _ Dude _ . You can have your heart on the wrong side?”

 

 

“Mmmhmmm.” Patrick nodded, looking over at him finally. “Did you know it actually disqualifies you from the draft? Because if you got gassed on the battlefield nobody would know to look for your heartbeat on the wrong side, and they might leave you because they thought you were dead.” 

 

 

“Why the fuck do you know that?” Pete replaced the book and pulled down the large maze ball, and started to roll the tiny ball through the 3D obstacles. 

 

 

“I thought it was interesting. There’s nothing wrong with the heart, it’s just on the wrong side, but it means you’d never fight in a war.” Came the absent answer, but Pete didn’t reply, already deep into trying to complete the maze, and Patrick fell silent as he kept working through the charts. It was cozy, and it calmed Pete’s nerves somehow to just be near Patrick, even if he wasn’t really paying attention to him. But then again…that’s how Patrick always made him feel.  _ Safe _ . 

 

 

Patrick sighed as he sat back in his chair about 20 minutes later. “Done.” Pete grinned, putting the ball back into the bookcase, and spun his chair towards his boyfriend. 

 

 

“Does that mean we can go raid the break room for something I’m more than likely going to puke up in about 15 minutes?”

 

 

Patrick gave him an indulgent smile and stood, stretching his back muscles. 

 

 

“Only if you promise to go to back to your room before the morning nurse does her rounds…  _ and _ try to get some sleep before your chemo.”

 

“I might if  _ someone  _ could escort me back to my room, Dr. Stumph. Besides, I have a tendency to wander when left unattended.”

 

“I’m set for a break anyways, so I’m sure that could be arranged.” 

 

...

 

Patrick flips through the patient's chart before he enters the room bathed in early morning light, scanning yesterday’s numbers and frowning slightly as one in particular worried him.  _ Those white blood cells are too low _ …. He makes a mental note to send samples off to Oncology as he steps into the room, tucking the folder into the holder on the door as he smiled at the little five-year old sitting in a too-big hospital bed, drowning in a hospital gown, her father sitting  by her side.

 

“Hey Amelia!” He greeted easily, “How  are you feeling today, Sweetheart?”

 

The five year-old flashed him a toothy-grin, her own face lighting, as she clutched her teddy bear to her chest. “Hi Dr. Stumph! I feel okay.”

 

Patrick walks easily around the room, grabbing gloves from the box along the wall as he made his way over to her side. “I’ll take okay,” he chuckles. She nods excitedly before falling into a coughing fit, wet and rattling, her father quick to run soothing circles over her back in an attempt to ease the fit.

 

When she settles after a moment, her coughs dissipating into wheezes, her dad turns to Patrick with a sad smile tugging at his lips, as he speaks lowly. “She’s been having a lot of coughing fits at night, yesterday she had a fever, but that’s the third one this week.” 

 

Patrick nods slowly, sitting along the edge of the bed next to Amelia and her dad. “I saw her in chart, and honestly, that’s beginning to worry me a bit, that the infection keeps coming back, so I’m going to order a few more tests.”

 

Amelia’s father nods in understanding. “Of course, whatever you need to do Doc.”

 

Patrick turns to Amelia, her little body still trying to recover from her cough, chest heaving and eyes slightly watery, as some of the excitement and light she had greeted Patrick with was dampened, causing a slight pang to run through his chest at the sight. “Okay ‘Melia, remember when Nurse Sonia came in and took some blood from you?”

 

She buried herself into her father’s side, trying to shy away. “I don't like when they do that….It hurt…”

 

“I know Sweetie,” Patrick soothed, “But we need to check your blood to make sure everything is okay. I promise it’ll go super fast.”   
  


  
The child looked at him with wearily, wide brown eyes inspecting him, trying to search for the lie in his words. “Super,   _ super _ fast?”

 

“Super duper fast,” he grinned, his hand coming over hers. He feels her hand turn in his, squeezing it as the smile she gives him doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but the childlike spark was there, shining in her eyes as he gives him a nod. “How about this,” he says softly “We can sing a song to make it go by faster! I like music, and I’m pretty sure I heard you singing Frozen yesterday with Nurse Sonia.” She nods excitedly. “What’s your  _ faaaavorite _ song to sing in school?” 

 

“The Itsy-Bitsy Spider!”

 

The honey blond-haired doctor laughed. “Good choice! Just because it’s your favorite song, we should sing it twice.” He takes out a small tourniquet decorated with little bears along the belt,  packaged venipuncture, along with two additional empty vials, unwrapping the instruments from their sterilized packaging . “Okay, Miss Amelia, I’m going to want you to look at your Daddy the whole time, okay? You might feel a little stab, but it’s going to be over before the end of the song.” She nods as she automatically turns away, hiding her face into her father’s side. Patrick moves to arrange her, gently wrapping the belt of the tourniquet around his petite arm,  frowning at the bruises from the last blood draw that had yet to begin to fade, as he swiped a pad of alcohol against the sight.

 

“On the count of three we’re gonna start singing, okay, Amelia?” She nods into her Daddy’s side, clutching her teddy bear impossibly tight to her chest with her other arm. “As loud as you can, ready? One, two, three!  _ The itsy-bitsy- spider went up the water spout... _ ”

 

They sing the first line together, her dad joining in as well, before he gently pushes the hypodermic needle of the venipuncture into the slightly bulging vein in the crook of her arm, Amelia not even flinching, too distracted by singing to even realize she had been poked. By the time their half way through the second round of the sound, he’s done, swiping the area with a sterile wipe, and covering the puncture with a cotton ball and a Minnie Mouse band-aid. “ _ And the Itsy Bitsy Spider when up the spout again _ ….Aaaand you’re done!” Patrick exclaimed with a grin, pocketing the vitals into the pocket of his doctor’s coat and disposing of his gloves. “See! Super duper fast.”

 

Amelia's eyes bulge as she looks down at her arm and then back at him, her face splitting into a mega-watt smile as she looks down at her bandaid. “It didn’t hurt!”

 

“That’s good! You’re being such a brave little girl for your daddy, huh?” He checks her lungs before he leaves with his bright orange stethoscope, calmly instructing her to breathe in and out  _ “Like you’re blowing the biggest bubble ever” _ trying to hiding away his worry under a professional mask as he hears a deep rattling. “I’ll be checking in on her later today, if not tomorrow morning,” he explains to Amelia’s dad. “If you need anything, feel free to page me.”

 

Amelia’s dad thanks him, hugging his daughter close to his side in the big hospital bed as Patrick takes his leave, retrieving the chart on his way out of the door and scribbling notes as he walks back to the nurse’s station. He hands the chart and vials of blood over to one of the nurses. “Can you send these down to the lab, I want results as soon as possible,” his voice holding a tone of calm finality. The nurse nods and vanishes down the ever-busy hall, leaving him to pick through another stack of charts, determining who to see next on his rounds. 

 

“Just the doctor I was hoping to see!” came a voice behind Patrick, he turns to see Dr. Elisa Yao, the head of NICU and his best friend since med school. “I was going to ask if you’re willing to cover me for like 30 minutes, Lauper wants to talk to me about budget and all that fun stuff later, and honestly, I have three premies that I don’t trust the interns to be left alone with because, well, they don’t know what they heck they’re doing yet.”

 

Patrick shoots her a grin as writes something in one of the charts before adding it to a pile, tucking two under his arm as he begins to walk, Elisa matching his strides. “You gotta have a little more faith in the interns, ‘Lisa.”

 

The woman besides him pulls her dark, curly hair into a messy bun as she speaks, her voice laced with irritation. “I don’t trust newbies in NICU, Patrick, you know this! Besides, none of the kids in the batch even have an interest in Peds, they all want Plastics.  _ So,  _ that being said, I don’t want them touching my babies with a 10 foot pole unsupervised”

 

He shakes his head as he cleans his this thick-rimmed glasses on the hem of his scrubs as they walk over to the locker rooms. “I’ll give you that one. What time’s your meeting?”

 

Her face lights up, a wayward curl falling in her face. “At 1400, so technically still naptime for my little chicks. You might just need to help feed one of them, but I’ll let you know before then.” 

 

“Sounds good,” Patrick slips off his white coat, chucking it over to an empty chair before throwing himself haphazardly on the sofa in the locker room, allowing himself to enjoy a break in his 18 hours shift. 

 

Elisa laughs at the display, heading over to her locker and fetching a tupperware contain filled with chunks of pineapple, coming back over to where Patrick was sprawled and falling into the space next to him. “You better be sleeping after your shift ends,” she threatens, although her voice holds no malice as he offers the contain of fruit over to Patrick who politely refuses with a shake of his head. “You look exhausted,” she said, munching on a piece contentedly.

 

“Started my shift at 10pm last night, I’m supposed to clock out at 4pm. I’ll probably nap in Pete’s room if chemo went well, he’ll be tired too.” He explained softly, eyes fluttering shut as he tilted his head back to rest against the top of the sofa. 

She hummed, picking at another piece of of fruit. “I heard from a little bird in Oncology that Pete wasn’t in bed for 5am check-in yesterday,” a playful smile came across her lips, nudging at Patrick’s side.

 

“I  _ swear _ , it wasn’t my fault,” the blonde mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “He escaped and came to my office because he was  _ bored _ .” There’s not real heat in his words, sure some annoyance, but he couldn’t bring himself to be mad or even bothered by Pete’s early morning visit. If anything, Patrick was  _ happy _ about it, happy that Pete has been well enough to get out of bed and play hookie in his office, that he  _ looked _ good this morning. He was able to keep down the granola bar and gatorade they had managed to raid from the vending machine in the staff lounge before Patrick wheeled Pete back and helped him into bed, cuddling up against Pete’s warmth in the cold of the room as his dark-haired boyfriend drifted off into sleep, fingers linked between them and a gentle kiss gracing his collarbone through the dark blue material of his scrubs. 

 

For all of Pete’s hospital shenanigans, Patrick was glad he was getting treatment at his hospital, close to him, and if anything were to happen, he’s only an elevator ride away.

 

“He was bored?” Elisa giggled. “Oh God, that’s Pete for you.” She turned to him with an easy smile, and almost as if she could read his thoughts like an open book, she spoke softly. “But I’m glad he’s here, ‘Trick. I know that makes a world of difference.”

 

He thinks back to Pete sleeping soundly in his bed, of kissing his forehead and whispering  _ ‘I love you _ ’ against his temple before slipping out from underneath the blanket he a brought from home to comfort Pete to start his round on the Pediatric floor. Pete was so incredibly close, and he was absolutely grateful for it. “Yeah,” he sighs, a dopey little smile finding his lips. “Legless or not, though, he’s still a freaking child.”

 

Elisa cracks up at the statement, her head tilting back as her musical laugh fills the lounge. “Yup, that’s Pete Wentz. I know he’s your boyfriend, but he acts like a 5 year old on a sugar-high.” She paused for a moment, the spark of an idea flashing over her features and her lips pulling into a smile. “You know what? If Pete gets bored, why not have him hang out with some of the kids. I mean, he’s already a man-child, why not have him interact with them, you know, for moral support,” she pitches, causing Patrick to turn his attention over her way, a single fine eyebrow lifted in curiousity. “Besides, it would be entertainment for us  _ and  _ the kids,” she grins. “So that way, Pete stops playing JailBreak, and he’s hanging out in Peds…” 

 

Before Patrick could make an argument against it, about to rattle on about Pete’s immune system and his chemo, Elisa is already out of her seat, tucking her fruit back into her locker and walking out the door. “Don’t even try, I’ll talk to Lauper about it, I’m sure she won’t mind!”

 

“Wait,  _ what? _ ” Patrick’s out of his seat, his best friend’s words barely registering in his exhausted brain. “Elisa! No Don’t even think about it!”

 

“See you at 2pm for your stint as Mother Hen!” And with that she’s out the door, her voice filled with laughter and something Patrick doesn’t particularly like when Elisa’s got an idea on her mind, leaving him along in the lounge, looking around the room, and trying to figure out what the hell just happened, until it hits him.

 

He falls back into the plush of the sofa with a groan, the beginnings of a headache starting to form at his temples and he brings the heels of his palms to his eyes.

 

Pete,  _ his _ Pete, in Pediatrics….Patrick’s not sure if he can  _ handle _ the impending chaos that was about to come over his department.

 

_ Oh fuck. _


End file.
